The Episodic Thoughts of Hamp: Or A Blogger’s 1999-2014 Perspective

By Codis Hampton II

All of my life I've been a jack of all trades and master of none sometimes to my own detriment. I have abilities and talent that required study and development. For some reason or turn in life, I never took the chance to fully develop as a singer, instrumentalist, commercial artist, cartoonist, comedian, or actor. I love the arts but never could settle on one field. Nor put in the work and study required to excel in either category. I also love the world of business; always imagining myself as a man in charge. I attribute that to my Leo sign. As a Dept. of Defense employee, career success was realized by beginning as a Supply Clerk and retiring as Director of Small Purchase. In self-employment ventures, I had the ideas and skills but lacked the funding. I also found my interest varied as an entrepreneur. I love the service aspect of business, especially helping people. Yet, I am always drawn back to the arts. Those varied experiences, compelling interest and parental inherited common sense led me to writing social commentary. Whether it’s humorous or serious political commentary, my perspective differs from the norm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781478753193

Codis Hampton II

I want my epitaph to read; God gave him the gift of observing while interpreting his and others’ lives with a curious mind. He surrounded him with a loving family and as a member of a unique race of people. Eventually, discovering his calling to tell the world of his observations, Hamp played the hand dealt.

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The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Episodic Thoughts of Hamp

Or A Blogger’s 1999-2014 Perspective

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Codis Hampton II

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Check out Mr. Hampton weekly works at

Hamp’s Corner of America found on web sites

www.katara-Rhythm.com and www.chiia.com,

or FaceBook at

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Hamps-Corner-of-America/207387462631457.

Catch him on LinkedIn too at

https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=31446892&trk=nav_responsive_tab_profile

Follow him on Twitter at

https://twitter.com/HampTwo

Or you can listen to him live at

Hamp’s Corner of America Blog Talk Radio Show.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/hampscornerofamerica

If you can’t catch a live show, you can visit the website above; listen to the lineup of shows already broadcast at your own leisure. Follow the show to get notifications of future broadcast.

Author’s Personal Note

I wanted to be the man my father thought I could become.

I wanted to be the man my father thought I could become. Events and incidents facilitated my growth beyond my wildest dreams. Yet even today in my elder statesmen’s years I wonder what he would think of me now. I know that he would be proud of me, a working career accomplished and retired, becoming a writer to pass on the humor, bits of knowledge, among a few other things to readers. He loved my wife of now almost forty-six years of marriage. Boy, you got a good one there, you better hold on to her," he would say. Well daddy, I know a lot of people, including some other relatives, didn’t think we would be together two weeks. Sandra and I, after three children, are still kicking it. There have been a lot of loving, missing each other, apologizing and compromising. There has been a re-evaluation of one’s true values, overcoming man-made obstacles, earned respect, maturing, devotion and continued loving to keep this marriage together on both our parts.

When I left Milwaukee in the fall of 1978 moving to California, my father only had one piece of advice for me. He had heard me complain time and time again about getting a real job. He saw my happiness at opening our Katara-Rhythm, our little gift and record shop. He felt my pain at having to close it, not because of a lack of customers, because I lacked the capital to expand. The bank told me, and rightly so, I could not get a loan without collateral. So close and yet so far from success, I choose to leave for greener pastures. He knew I had a Government position waiting for me. His words of advice were thoughtful, deliberate and succinct. In his gruff voice and deep concern for my wife, two kids and a newborn baby echoed in his warning, Boy, don’t you get out there and forget your family. You send for them as soon as you can, you hear? I drove all the way to San Francisco-Oakland Bay Area, arriving around September 19th. My wife and kids arrived at Oakland International Airport the second week in December. Needless to say, daddy was happy with me. He was a hard working family man that loved to fish and take a nip now and then.

In remembrance of who he was and what he stood for, this book is not only dedicated to my wife but to you daddy. It has been a wild ride, this thing called life, and it is not over yet. God has allowed me to survive and I hope I am making him proud of me too.

In the end, this book is compiled for you the public. Some of you know me, most don’t. I believe God gave me a gift and wanted me to share it with you. It’s a way of looking at life from my perspective. I hope you are moved to think about your own lives, family, politics, religion, etc. from reading these articles. The words are meant to give you pause and reflection. You can take it from there. As for me, like the Johnny Taylor song says, hey world, I am still kicking it and … I’m doing my own thing.

Peace, and make it a day that Jesus Christ would be proud of,

Codis Hampton II

Acknowledgement I

Scholars and the like urge people to know their past in order to improve upon their future. They implore us to understand our history in order not to repeat the same mistakes in the here and now. That is one reason I wanted to present these thoughts I wrote as far back as 15 years ago up through today.

I want to acknowledge a few people that have helped me get to this stage in my life. First and foremost, the Lord almighty and Jesus Christ, without whose gifts of compassion and power of perception and life itself, would not allow me to have a past, present or future.

Secondly my parents, Codis Hampton Senior, and Doreatha (Childs-Hampton) Cole, and the family tree of Hampton’s that came before them, withstanding the abuse, degradation, and terror to survive and procreate people of today with talents beyond their wildest dreams at the time. I always give credit to my stepmother, Rosalie Hampton, my mother-in-law, Ruth Gilkey-Moseby for playing an essential role in my life as friends and advisors. To my cousins who doubled as my playmates and friends while growing up in Milwaukee, to the fellows, who I ran, got in and out of trouble with, to the girls who taught me the passionate part of life too.

To friends and comrades I met and ran with while in the United States Army and to its organizational structure that carved a man out of a wild-eyed boy. To Jeannie and Katie, whose faces I can still see waving goodbye as I left Korea headed stateside. For the lifelong lessons, you taught, and companionship you provided during a vitally significant growth period, I hope your lives were as rich and meaningful as you dreamed they could be. Thanks for a lifetime of memories.

To Sandra (Moseby) Hampton, my wife of 46 years, a woman who has given me three children and stood by me through thick and thin, our love is still real. To the many family members and friends that have endured my quirky sense of humor, I love and thank you all. To not have met anyone of you would have left a void in my life that I will never experience because you all were there for me. I hope and pray that I have provided some sort of lasting impression on you that you all have for me. But then, hold on, because there is more life to live, friends and people to meet, things to do and places to go. It is certainly true; God ain’t through with me yet.

Codis Hampton II

Acknowledgement II

Gracie Hall-Hampton, the Arkansas Years, 1917-1953. Over the last several Arkansas years, Gracie Hall-Hampton had become somewhat callous in manner. Friends, family, as well as foe, say dealing with her could be a difficult task. Some say she’d gone from a sweet innocent young girl to a mean quick-tempered old woman. She always had her shotgun near, with a four-inch all-purpose pocket knife in the lone pocket of her trademark full-bodied specialty made housewives apron. I guess over the years, she felt the need to defend her family, property, or self could come at any moment. She just wanted to be ready.

One can understand how a single mother must be a rock in the family, especially in the rural areas of a segregated South. Given where she and her family lived, one can also understand why she had to be tough to fend for herself and those she loved. In some ways, she took on the personality of a frontier woman blazing a trail for others to follow.

Raising five children, after her husband died was a tough assignment. She had to be a teacher after school was out, the mother when one of own was physically or emotionally hurt, a strong, kind, or stern disciplinarian whenever a situation call for it. She had to provide the voice of wisdom and experience to young folks who thought they had the answers to all problems. But most of all, she had to be the protector of her family when it came to dealing with people, especially the local white folk.

She, maybe a little grudgingly, took on all those and other roles required at specific times. As time went on, she realized that she could not be hesitant in making decisions. She had to convince some by proving that she was neither weak nor reluctant to do whatever was necessary for her and family to survive. Those who dared to challenge her authority found they’d better arm themselves because it would be a fight to the death.

To some, she was a sweet old lady who made the best tea cakes and other sweet treats. She was just as enjoyable as she had to be to get her way. A testament of her character all depended on who were providing the information. There was one common fact in all the conversations and inquires. One did not cross this little five foot mother of five or there would be consequences.

For me, little Codis, a young, wide-eyed five-year-old kid, she was just Grandma. I was sent south because my father and mother, who were still living in Milwaukee, were going through a separation period which finally ended in divorce. I stayed with my grandma and her youngest daughter almost a couple of years.

She maintained her gruff personality even after moving to Milwaukee. She told me the story of a visit to the county hospital-clinic. She was there for a physical checkup but quickly became annoyed while taking the exam. She told me, I told that doctor to stop poking me all over and he would not, so I chased him out of the room with my pocket knife. As I recall, there were no charges, they simply told her she was in excellent health and could go back home now. I never did find out if she had the same doctor the following year.

Being brought up in the city, with all of its conveniences of indoor plumbing, electricity, modern medicine, yearly evolving personal and public transportation, along with public communication tools, i.e., Telegram and telephones, we took those things for granted.

Think about those who came before us in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Who were first introduced into this world by a midwife working under a kerosene lamp, using boiling well water and the determination of the expectant mother to deliver her baby as tools of the midwife’s trade.

I wrote this book so that my family and others could get to know Gracie Hall-Hampton, born in 1904 and died in 1985, eighty-one years later. I wanted my sons, daughter, and their sons or daughters to understand her. They should know how this five foot woman survived in a segregated South. Limited to an eighth-grade education, living in the deep woods, nestled up to a tree line of timber, where black bears, wolves, coyotes and an occasional mountain lion roamed, see how she rose above the circumstances and survived. She managed to raise five children in that environment, even after the death of her husband.

I wanted people to understand just who and where this little quiet woman (until somebody got her stirred up) was raised. What motivated her to keep going? I hope that readers get an understanding of what it was like to live in a place where a black person could disappear never to be found again in Jim Crows back yard.

After finishing the book, while lying in the bed early one morning, I was thinking about what I tried to accomplish as a writer. I suddenly remembered how surreal I felt while proofing the section I wrote about the birth of my grandmother’s first child, who happened to be my future father. Thoughts of did I do it justice? Was I respectful enough to the moment? Was I detailed enough for the reader to feel how it could have been? My answer to those questions and others were I wrote what I felt as a Hampton. My family and you (the readers) will judge my effort as the book’s author.

I hope this books’ read by all people, especially black people and others of color. African-Americans can compare the stories they’ve heard from their elders with those in this book and conclude; we come from a family tree of heroes who suffered in countless ways, survived and procreate, eventually paving the way for us to enjoy the freedom of being free from slavery in a country they helped to build. We should never forget that the struggle to remain free of racism is a never-ending job. No other race of people has been mentally, physically challenged throughout their entire world history up through today, for simply being on earth as black people. The closest that come to this type of degradation and stereotyping is the Jewish people during World War II. Keep in mind; I am not comparing this to an attempt at the extermination of the Jewish people by the Nazis.

As Americans, regardless of color, we have a chance and obligation to be a shining light for America. If we do that, this country will be truly recognized as an ideal society in which to make a life for you and our children.

Grandma Gracie had an abundance of common sense and loved her family. She always took the time to listen to me, as a kid and man, while offering advice where needed. I hope that she is at God’s side and are aware of this book’s publication dedicated in her memory. Love you, grandma.

This book is now on sale. You can order through my publishers, Author House, a bookstore website at http://www.authorhouse.com, through online stores like Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble (bn.com). You can also call our Book Order Hotline, at 1-888-280-7715. You can order by title, ISBN number listed below or my name as the author.

Published by Author House 11/20/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3113-7 (sc)= Soft Cover

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3112-0 (hc)= Hard Cover

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3111-3 (e) = E Book Format

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919268

Contents

Chapter 1

1999 thru 2003, or Learning to express myself with the written word.

Chapter 2

2004 thru 2006, or Jesus Christ! They reelected George W. Bush for another Four Years

Chapter 3

2001 thru 2011. Let’s meet and follow our favorite Flies on the Wall, Kyle and Jamal.

Chapter 4

2007 thru 2011, or Changes are Coming including acts of Obstruction to an elected president of the United States

Chapter 5

2012 thru 2014, The influence of ideological Money on Politics, Race, and America.

Chapter 6

Looking to 2015 and Beyond.

Hamp’s Epilogue.

Chapter 1

1999 thru 2003, or Learning to express myself with the written word.

September 1999, Who are those

young Black Men?

When I was a kid (don’t you hate that line?). Of 15 & 16 years of age, walking was my main source of transportation. It was a normal sight to see a group of black, white, or Puerto Rican teenagers walking the streets of Milwaukee back in the days of 1959 & 60; the city’s population included Whites, Blacks, Puerto Rican, Indians, and a large segment of German and Polish descendants. I don’t remember white people being intimated or afraid of black teenagers at that time. That’s not to say there were not problems; normally a girl was at the center of issues. And usually, it was not her fault.

The 90’s and the coming millennium are a whole new ballgame. White folk are not the only ones suspicious and afraid to walk by two or more young blacks on a street corner in the daylight hours. Middle-aged and older African-Americans feel some of the same feelings. As you and the wife get out of your car at the grocery store, you notice three black men standing at the entranceway.

Why can’t we simply look into the eyes of the young homies on the corner and see Mr. & Mrs. Davis son, William. One of them might be the Henderson boy, Juwon or little Baybay, who stays with his grandmother-Henrietta Carver. Could it be that these three young men look, act, and dress like thugs? Are we buying into the stereotypical young black male distortedly portrayed in the media? How many times have you cringed when listening to gangster rap lyrics coming from your son or daughters’ stereo, from the car next to you at a stop light, or catching a glimpse of the latest video as you channel surf while disbelieving your eyes and ears. No wonder they are sometimes confused is one of your thoughts.

Or, we might recall close relatives and our neighbor’s youngsters who show no respect for their elders and anyone else who cross their paths. We are shocked to hear 10 and 11year old boys and girls using curse words normally heard from juvenile delinquents. Disagreement and fights happen because someone’s not respecting another’s rights. Why did you hit him? The ten year old replies …He dissed me; he got in my face or the classic He got in my business. These same kids are growing up fast with many retaining the same attitude as a young man. Some learn to lie with a straight face. They know the buttons to push to get you to act in their favor.

We as intelligent people understand that the behavior of some does not mean every young black male is a thug. We see them in our churches; they live next door, in our house, and are our relatives. We are hardworking people who give our children love, understanding, material items, and a home. We teach them the value of the dollar, respect for your family, friends, and neighbor. We know that the thugs number few compared to reputable hardworking young men who are from loving families and will go on to lead exemplary lives. But that small finite minority can be so vocal and visible that they occupy our thought process more than we should allow. And given the exposure to all the negativity surrounding us in our daily lives, it’s getting harder for us to identify the good ones from the bad guys. We become confused at not knowing who or what to believe, or more importantly, who to trust. So we began to distrust them all. Now, they must prove they are not a thug.

That is why, as we approach these pleasant looking young black men who are standing outside a major grocery store. We begin to have flashbacks, check their street clothing. One has the earphones of a Walkman around his neck. They are all dressed in the street clothes of our time. Our ears are alert; we listen for foul language and gangster slang. As we walk closer, there is no tip-off as to what type of young men they are. So we a make a quick decision and assume the worst, put a scowl on our face, whisper to the wife, Honey, hold your purse tight, just in case. I wonder what the hell they want, we think to ourselves.

Just as you are passing, one of the young men produces a partition attached to a clipboard, and now you can clearly see that there is a table in the background containing other clipboards and pencils. The young man asks if you are a registered voter. Hardly able to contain your surprise you answer yes. Well! We need to sign up 10000 registered voters to get our Clean up the neighborhood partition on the ballot. Will you help us out?

You and the wife sign the partition and enter the store feeling like a fool. Now you are angry with your local and national newscaster, the TV programmers, and the video & movie producers, all those people who have poisoned your mind against your young people. Your faith is restored in the young again. That is until your next encounter.

October 1999, Please Judge,

I don’t want to serve.

Is there anyone in the entire United States of America who doesn’t mind jury duty? One look at a person’s body language after receiving a letter from the court answers that question.

The main problem with a notice to serve, it arrives in your mailbox unexpectedly. It doesn’t matter what you are doing on a Wednesday, two weeks from today. A call for jury duty will cause you to rethink your plans. You might have to cancel, or at least, reschedule your vacation, business conference, wedding, or even a baptism. Yes, we know most jury officials are compassionate. They are very understanding of certain events already planned. They may even excuse you. But you can’t count on that happening. So the first thing most people say, after realizing what the intent of the notice in hand. Oh Sh_t! That’s the ghetto version of What a bummer.

A man was overheard coaching a young lady on the nuances of getting rejected while being question by the prosecuting and or defense attorneys. Obviously he is the office expert on how to avoid serving on a jury. He provided some of the most common tactics around. Tell them you hate cops and the justice system in general, he advised. Come to think of it, there has got to be a book or at least a paper on someone’s web site on the proper tactics required to avoid an OJ Simpson like trial. Boy! I love this country.

There is another side to this process. Suppose you’re arrested? Let’s say you were pulled over for driving while black or brown. You were not speeding, but you were on your way to an extremely urgent meeting in your brand new Lexus. The cops rolled up behind you. Turning on their red and blue flashing lights, they ordered you to pull over through their vehicle’s loudspeaker. You are not only embarrassed, but you’re also pissed. They got a lot of nerves, you thought. You said a few things or one of the cops had powdered sugar on his lips causing you to laugh. Bottom line, things got out of hand, you ended up in jail. Later on, you posted your bail and headed for City Towing. After all, it’s not the officers’ duty to worry about your car upon your arrest. So it was towed. After paying to get your car out of jail, you finally were able to drive home.

Time has passed and since you pleaded not guilty of harassing, laughing and impeding an officer from conducting his duty your day in court has arrived. You are sitting at a table with your defense attorney anxiously watching and listening to the jury selection.

Eventually, 11 of your peers are selected. At least that’s what the judicial system calls them. In your heart, you know these 11 strangers are not in your league. But they are the people who will decide your guilt or innocence. What do you think? Maybe two of the eleven jurors are retirees. Everyone else is self-employed or working for someone else. None of them actually wanted to serve. I would venture to say that each one would like to see this trial over as soon as possible or even sooner. Most of them resemble the police officers that pulled you over in the first place. It all put things in perspective for you. Doesn’t it?

February 2000, Black History Month

Here, we are again. February is black history month. It’s remarkable that we have designated the entire month as a time for people to observe those members of the black race that has given so much of themselves and their talents to the human race.

Most people are familiar with Martin Luther King Jr., Harriet Tubman, Booker T. Washington, and others whose contributions are written and talked about on a regular basis. But there are numerous others not as well known. That is, not until this memorable month we’ve set aside to honor all those who have left a legacy. And there are others whose name we hear in relation to the popular phrase and do not realize that they too are black. One example is the old saying The real McCoy.

Elijah McCoy (1843-1929), born in Colchester, Ontario, Canada. His parents were runaway slaves that escaped from Kentucky via the Underground Railroad. After the Civil War, the family returned to the United States and settled in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Elijah attended school and became fascinated with machines and the tools of his time. In order to avoid the prejudice environment that didn’t permit full concentration to study his chosen profession, he moved to Edinburgh, Scotland and served an apprentice shop in mechanical engineering. After completion, he returned to the US and ran into the same environment that caused him to leave. No Company would hire a black man for such a skilled position. Taking a much less position, he worked as a fireman on the Michigan Central Railroad.

His job was simple. He was to perform the tedious task of fueling the firebox (to keep the steam up) of the engine and to oil it, in order to keep the parts from wearing out or causing friction that might result in a fire. The engine would have to be shut down for oiling. This function was necessary throughout the entire industry that had to use engines. The lubrication-by-hand process slowed down production in factories and caused lost time on the trains because it required stoppage of the engine, cooling down, and finally lubricated before starting up again.

Elijah felt there must be a better way. In his spare time, he began to work on solving this problem. Working in his private machine shop, he calculated and designed different ideas for two years while trying to come up with a process that would serve any machinery that required mechanical motion to power the device. He finally designed what he called the lubricating cup. The drip cup (nicknamed later) was a small container of oil with a stopcock to regulate the oil flow onto the moving parts of machinery. Natural it was quickly embraced and used by machine manufacturers throughout the world. And just as predictable, there were copycat models. They did not work as efficient as Elijah’s invention on which he received a patent for on July 12, 1872. As for the copycat models they caused such a problem that buyers inquiring about the type of lubricating system would ask Is it the real McCoy? Current industrial center personnel recognized the drip cup as a key device in perfecting the overall lubrication systems that are in place today.

The phrase The real McCoy quickly became to mean a unit of quality, the best, or the real thing. The phrase covered any object. In 1892, he invented and patented several lubricating devices used on the locomotive engines and steamers. In 1920, Elijah McCoy adapted his system to air brakes on vehicles. In all, he would invent twenty-three lubricators for all different types of machinery and receive over 57 patents within his lifetime. The ironing table (ironing board) and the useful lawn sprinkler among others were also his inventions. Elijah McCoy died in 1929, but his name lives on when one is speaking of quality or the real thing and not a cheap imitation.

March 2000, The Soul Trains

Awards Show

Ok! Ok! I know… I know. My expertise is ‘back in the day.’ When I refer to ‘my dog,’ I am talking about the four-legged kind. When someone mentions DMX, I think they are talking about a new type of cassette tape or a new stereo sound.

I sat through two hours of the Don Cornelius produced Soul Train Awards Show, taped March 4th and aired Saturday the 11th. I must confess. I checked the channel guide every half-hour to see if anything else was on TV. I had no luck. Five hundred channels and nothing else was on that I wanted to see. Damn that digital cable!

Initially, I was looking forward to the show. Although R&B and Jazz are my favorites, I like all music including rap when it makes sense.

Destiny’s Child came out looking fine and sexy in some very colorful and sleek costumes. The dance steps and production were tight. The music started and then they began to sing. I wish someone could have taken my picture at that moment because I was eating Ritz crackers with peanut butter & jelly (exciting for a Saturday night, huh?), and I am sure I stopped in mid-chew. They did not sound like they were singers. In fact, they sounded sick. You know like they had the flu or something.

Next, Sisqo, who seems to think screaming loud, platinum slick hair, and throwing off what looked like a feathery top wrap to reveal a bony-ass chest is a substitute for talent. If you saw it, did you check his eyes? He was deliberately rolling them up to the top of his head to reveal the whites in his eyes. I think he thought the look went with his white outfit. Talk about strange. Again the choreography was tight, the music (The Thong Song), singing, and elaborate stage props were not.

After a couple of award presentations, they offered Blaque of the hit tune Bring It All to Me. That’s right, sexy looking ladies, great outfits, dance steps, and stage presence. The background singing was tolerable. I recognized the song as one I liked. And then the lead vocals started singing. I was no longer shocked because she didn’t sound like the recording either. She must have had the same flu bug as Destiny’s Child.

The hosts Eric Benet, Tamia, Left Eye Lopez, and Shemar Moore were pleasant enough. Since I have Eric Benet and Tamia’s latest CD, I was hoping they would sing. And Tamia, if she isn’t the finest sweetest lady, who is also married to Grant Hill, the basketball player, and she can sing.

This entire good dance routines, bad singing process went past the 15 to 20 minute’s point. As I stated, I started looking for something else during the commercials but had no luck. So I would turn back to the show.

Some award presenters (members of rap groups) were putting plugs in for their projects before naming the winners. And the thuggish looking Juvenile Back That Thang Up? There must have been 9 or 10 people on stage with the leader to accept his award. His acceptance speech was all about him and what he had accomplished and how good God had been to HIM. It was truly a self-serving acceptance speech. In their performance, two of his dogs had their pants waist down to the middle of their thighs. What’s up with that? Why not just take the pants off?

Forty-five minutes into the show they introduce Eric Benet and Tamia who sung the Spend my Life with You duet from Eric’s A Day in the Life CD. And guess what. There were too many extras in the production background that took away from the pair’s talent, which was to sing a loving duet. Both of them can and did sing in spite of being distracted by those in the background.

I will say this about Genuine. The dude can sing and dance. He has a good stage presence although he probably drives the cameramen crazy trying to keep up with him. And he seemed happy to win. I have seen him on Live from LA and his sincerity is real. Although I did see the pre-tear in his tee shirt and thought, it was part of the outfit. Of course, we learned (later in his act) that it was there to give him help as he pulled at the very tear spot and ripped it down to his waist to the screaming delight of girls in the balcony. Hey, whatever works? It least he has genuine talent. No pun intended.

The first time Left Eye Lopez accepted an award for TLC, she thanked everybody except TLC. It was another shameless self-promotion speech. They won another award, and she ran out of people to thank and still never mentioned her sister group members. It made me sick to see such a self-centered idiot. That’s right, the same idiot that burned down Andre Rison’s house. Later on she supported Donnell Jones U Know Whats’ Up with a rap verse. Her stage entrance was great but as she got out of the seat of the lowered trapeze, the wide cow (white with black spots) patterned belt came loose. She spent most of the two-minute rap with her back to the audience as she feverishly tried to button or snap the belt. Finally, she did in time to turn and walk toward the audience throwing off the white mink and revealing a skimpy outfit with patterned underwear that looked too large for her very small body. At that point, I just wanted her to put the mink back on because she does not have enough top or bottom. At least, I wasn’t excited. And believe me, I am a very excitable dude.

And to my girl Whitney, I don’t like dissing anyone who does not deserve it. But airport security didn’t get all of Whitney’s stash. She must be on something to think that Bobby Brown is the original king of Rhythm & Blues. She made this same statement at the Grammy Award Show. I mean, What’s Love Got to Do with It? However, I am happy she won an award. The lady can blow. She belongs in the company of the greats.

And finally, they gave The Artist (formally known as Prince) the Artist of the Decade Award. I don’t know how they missed Michael Jackson or even Whitney Houston. I am not sure of the criteria for their selection, but I will not quarrel with the winner. I am a fan of The Artist as a person and entertainer. He asked the audience to remain standing as he began to speak. Clearly he had watched the same sad performance and self-promotion that everybody saw and was moved to scribble a new acceptance speech. You could tell by the writing on table paper he laid on the dais.

He started by saying that we (people of color) are a very gifted, and resilient, people with extraordinary talents that reveal themselves every day of our lives. The speech specifically spoke to the performers and let them know that some in the entertainment field will win the ability to control their creative professions, and most will not win the game. He finished with Imagine what we would be like in The Game, with peace and love for each other. With that, I am sure some got it, and most didn’t.

Overall, the show was a perfect example of some of the very young artists and entertainers we have today that are all show and no substance. I am used to this scenario when viewing certain acts of a different color. I know that agents, press secretaries, etc.